Hope

you know it's a bad idea when you walk into a rest stop bathroom and the first thought that crosses your mind is, "yeah. this is where i'm going to die." the toilet water permanently colored by rust, the tiles on the floor are brick red, or blood red?...no. and the lock on the door is visible at best. tiny shreds of dead tree on the floor give the vague shape of toilet paper remnants, tangible evidence of human civilization, albeit it subjective: it doesn't matter. you've got hope, kid, and that's what counts. someone had been here, in your very spot, clawing desperately for the tiniest possible shred of cleanliness. you decided to ignore the stench and dim light the moment you walked through the door, and the sink is home to human hair, vomit, and ants working the night shift. but the point of the matter is, when you gotta go, you gotta go, so as you turn to squat, you contort your face painfully and shut your eyes until it hurts, and remind yourself, "yeah, i'm gonna die."
.

paul is there, staring at the payphone, scared, not sure if he's going to knock the spider off the receiver or not. and who would? the spider was there first, and if we've learned anything from history, you back the fuck off if it's not yours, right?
his right hand makes a sweeping motion, he jumps back, regains consciousness, and picks up the phone.
i stay in the car, sweating, inhaling and exhaling the muggy air. across the intersection is nothing. once trees, maybe. once happiness, who knows. there's nothing there now, facing the storing garages, facing my high school. it's a disgusting little brown town, and i can't help but ask myself if this is how it feels when the feeling goes.
.

i base my life off of one simple question: would my fortune cookie lie to me?
if there's anything in this world that i can trust,
dear god let it be the shiny piece of paper
stuck in my complimentary treat.

Odds

there i am, going north on central park, rapid eye movement and cursive keeping me company as i try not to breathe out of my mouth and as i try to make my gait fall in accordance not with nightswimming (because you can't run to that. to that, you can only grow and come-of-age, and i did that yesterday), but to orange crush. from the asphalt to the blacktop to the sidewalk, i see it. right before i end the world, i see it. under the white aid of the streetlight (not an orange glow. some are white, some yellow, some orange, and the differential makes all the difference), i ran right over the beetle.

i murdered something, probably leaving some infants father-less, but i kept on running. the lyrical ballad of the big bang no longer keeping me occupied, i couldn't help but wonder: what are the odds that that happened? what are the odds that at 8:42 p.m. [CST] i, kendall, set out for my nightly jog, and 1.7 miles into it, stepped on a beetle (who could have also been taking his nightly round?). what if i had left my dorm one second sooner? or later? or if he had paused for just a moment? what's more: my right foot did the dirty work. what are the odds that he lucked out, avoiding the wrath of my left, which was undoubtedly a closer threat?

what are the odds?
i want numbers. i want them, on my paper, here, now.
i wouldn't mind having numerophobia in addition to oneirophobia; what's the difference?
that didn't make sense,
and what are the odds? (very likely? oh, how funny.)

holding hands in the dark, from promises to regrets, and back again. panting, mistakes, sweaty successes, i'm a fucking wreck. what are the odds?

[edited for sanity's sake, not that sanity ever did anything for me.]

Beans And Queens

as hurricane kendall ripped through her drawers, she asked,
why don't i have a t-shirt exhibiting my profound adoration of my favorite men with guitars?

she answered,
i don't know.

then came her rebuttal,
oh, yes i do,
I'M BROKE.

i want:
a sports watch.
a toyger.
to remove the bean from its current location and put it in my backyard.
a big, tall, cold glass of ciderrrrrrrrr.
answers.
a better body.
an even better-looking resumé.
a future....

....ooo, too far?


the kings and queens sit and wait.
we sit on top of our cars and watch molly stark put on a show for us;
that's how you know you're still alive.

the kings and queens sit and wait.
we sit on top of our beds and watch others put on a show for us;
that's how you know you're still alive.

and when those two fail?

....ooo, too far?

Il Pleut Des Cordes

it's really like this: the bricks shiny from the rain (always, always, always raining), slippery, a deathtrap from above. i miss walking in that rain. getting off the tube at the wrong stop, homework waiting for me on my desk, but making a visit nonetheless. the hillhead stop always smelled awful, the cold air outside crashing into the warm heat from inside. a child with a cup outside. crowded sidewalks, umbrellas, the walk, the rain, all the rain (always, always, always raining), and people who made my world spin.

there are times when it's appropriate to speak with another person:

on long walks,
around campfires,
and the morning after (sometimes).

i try to speak about things of paramount importance: things that matter.
instead, what comes out are stories about stupid summer boys,
how and why i feel the need to paint my toenails,
my utter disdain for yogurt,
multiregional continuity,
how galaxies collide,
and the rain.

always, always, always the rain.